


now that you're here

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots following Emma and Killian through parenthood, set in an AU future where big bads aren't a problem. Pure unadulterated fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. anchor me down

She watches him cradle the newborn ( _their_ newborn) from her place on the bed, sweat clinging to her forehead and wrists feeling blessedly free compared to the previous situation she’d had to deliver a kid in.

He grins down at his son.

( _His_ son.  _Their_ son. It all seemed so terribly unachievable for such a long time but now they’re here despite curses and wicked witches and dark ones and the like. The look on his face is of pure adoration and God, she’s sure if she thinks about this for a second longer, she’ll start crying again.)

“Did you settle on a name?” She’s chewing at her bottom lip when she asks, not wanting to break him out of his little bubble of joy.

He meets her eyes, his own twinkling in the harsh light of the hospital room and she thinks about how far they’ve come. He shakes his head. “We should decide on it together.”

His thumb is rubbing slow lazy circles on the side of the blanket that’s wrapped around their baby while his other hand is tucked carefully underneath him. She can practically feel the love radiating off of him and she can’t help but smile.

“I was thinking,” she pauses and considers the options they’d laid out months ago, “you liked Leopold.”

He hums noncommittally, slowly rising from the, no doubt, uncomfortable plastic chair and moving his attention to his son. He walks the short distance to the side of her bed, and nods at her to scoot over. She lets out a breathless laugh and complies. The bed dips as he squeezes in next to her, chin grazing her shoulder, one leg pressing against hers while the other dangles on the side of the bed (these things were _not_ made to hold two people - or perhaps, now three).

She notices that he’s gotten more comfortable since they’d arrived at the hospital. He’s stripped off to just his button down, pants, and those ridiculous blue socks with white anchors on them that her father got him for Christmas. She’s suddenly overcome with the desire to buy her son matching ones, if only to see the look on Killian’s face when she does so.

“May be a little too ambitious for the wee lad,” he says quietly.

“Wouldn’t want to make him feel too pressured,” she finds herself whispering back and smiling at his answering chuckle.

She moves her hand to thumb at the apple of her child’s cheek and she’s infinitely glad that he has his father’s dark hair, just like she’d imagined he would. “Charles?”

He laughs again. “I don’t believe I’d be able to speak of him without thinking of my ridiculous princely attire.”

“I quite liked the princely attire on you.”

She can feel his smirk pressed against the side of her neck. Her other hand goes to wrap around his forearm, sighing into the comfort that he always seems to provide her merely through his presence.

“Perhaps. After all, he is a prince.”

“How about Oliver?”

“I quite like that.”

He moves his hand from its place on his son’s chest and brings it to tangle with her fingers. She can’t see him with his face downcast and settled into the dip of her shoulder, but she knows he’s wearing an expression of contemplation. The one he gets where his brow furrows ever so slightly and his lips part slowly.

“How about,” she takes in a heavy breath. “I was thinking, maybe…”

He pulls back from her slightly, attempting to catch her eyes and read her expression no doubt. “What is it, love?” His concern overwhelming in his soft voice.

She meets his eyes and takes in his knitted brows and tight lips, and sighs once more. “I don’t know, it was just a thought but, I really liked it and,” she cuts herself off and looks down back at her son.

And she knows he’s watching her, waiting for her to tell him what she’s kept pressed inside her chest for the past few months. In some kind of fear. Of not hurting him, of not wanting to overstep some sort of boundary. And she’s married to him, for God’s sake, but she still doesn’t know if it’ll be too much.

“Emma?”

She shifts her gaze back to him. “Liam.” It’s as soft as her own breath, and by his frozen expression, she’s not sure he’s heard her. But as the steady breaths of her child slowly become the only sound to fill the room, her own heart begins to speed up anxiously and she moves her gaze away from his stoic face.

Suddenly, she feels his hand tighten around hers and he exhales shakily. “After my -” he doesn’t finish the thought, merely lets it hang in the limited space between them.

She nods.

“You don’t have to do it for me.” And his voice wavers ever so slightly, the echo of a lost boy caught in his throat, the rapid rhythm of his voice when he told her he wasn’t good enough for her still beating heavily through her mind.

“I want to.”

And they’re staring intently at each other now, his eyes brimming with a strange spark that she thinks is _hope_ and she’s certain that there are tears streaming down her cheeks and _Goddamn these hormones_. He leans in and kisses her softly, and she feels every hair on her body prickle at the passion that coats his action.

When they separate, she notices his careful grip on their son - on  _Liam_. And she knows he hasn’t said it yet, but he wants it. He wants to cherish his brother’s memory, wants to speak to his little boy and raise him to be like the man he has always looked up to.

“Are you sure?” He whispers. “We can always name him Charles.”

She smiles. “I’m sure if you are.”

He nods and swoops in to kiss her again, this time harder, and she’s so _fucking tired_  but it takes everything in her not to press him flush against her and let him take her right on this bed. She figures the nurses wouldn’t take too kindly to that. Neither would their newborn son - who she realizes they will probably be embarrassing quite a lot for the rest of his days.

“Emma Swan, you are the light of my life. Thank you.”

“Emma  _Jones_ ,” she corrects, nudging his nose with her own, “and you are mine.”

He grins like an idiot. And she’s never loved him more than like this, dark circles under his tired eyes, but every part of him aglow with bliss as he carries their son in his arms.

He pulls Liam closer to his chest, his hooked hand wrapped around him while his other one rests on her waist, lightly drawing patterns there with his fingers. It is as if he is anchoring them both to himself, and she knows the feeling because that’s what she wants too. To keep this moment here, forever. To keep them, forever.

“And you, little Liam,” he squeezes him even closer to his chest as if that were even possible, “I will go to the ends of the earth for you.”

And if he notices her eyes glaze over as she presses herself further into him, his only indications are his fingers tightening around her and him nuzzling into her neck, whispering to her to  _go to sleep, love_.

(When she awakes, she finds Killian standing by the window, Liam in his arms as though he hasn’t put him down the whole night, mumbling stories of his brother to their son - and she makes a silent wish that her heart never stop swelling at the sight of them.)


	2. the whole world, it is sleeping (but my world is you)

The inch of light streaming through the curtains is what wakes her, causes her to groan and burrow further into her comforter. She’d been up for most of the night (make that most of the past few months), trying to get Liam to sleep. And her mother  _had_ told her that this would be a problem but she’d waved it off, tucked it into the corner of her mind as something she’d deal with when it happened. And, boy, her dark circles would scream to the whole town now that it was  _surely happening_.

(She’s pushed Henry into staying over at Regina’s for most nights, because even though he’s completely enraptured by his new brother, he doesn’t need the added excuse of a crying child to add to his ever growing list of reasons to not do his homework.)

She sighs, bringing a hand up to scrub across her face. She missed this with Henry, and no matter how much she whines about her sleepless nights, she knows she’d give up thousands more if it meant getting a chance to raise her own kid right. She’d throw her sanity to the wind if it meant she could somehow get a chance to do this with Henry. (The fake memories tell her she did, but that’s all they are; figments she knows aren’t true.)

_You can’t change the past, love, but you can amend the present through it. You are a wonderful mother._

She smiles despite her hazy vision, eyes now open and adjusting to focus on the line of sunlight dripping on to the edge of her pillow, as his voice runs through her head. He’d whispered it to her one night, voice gruff and accent thickened with lethargy, tightening his arms around her waist and kissing the back of her neck until she fell asleep.

He’s as new to all this as she is, but he wakes with her when Liam cries in the night, always offers to duck into their son’s nursery so she can get some sleep. (She bets all her magic that he stumbles to stand by Liam’s cot, because he simply cannot bring himself to be away from his son. Every time she sees the pure adoration for the kid in his eyes, she knows she wouldn’t have it any other way.) They take turns, of course, and she finds herself being unable to imagine doing any of this without him, sleep often evading her until he returns to her side. And she’s never depended on anyone like this in a  _long_ time, and yet the thought doesn’t make her fingers twitch, doesn’t make her legs itch with the need to  _leave_ , doesn’t cause her shoulders to tense and her voice to come out in jagged tones. No, it makes her want to press her nose further into his chest when he hugs her after a long day at work, makes her wish for cheesy Christmas cards with the four of them plastered on like a stock image of a family; her, Henry, Liam, and Killian.

She turns in her spot, wanting to hide herself from the day in his embrace, only to be met with empty sheets. And the panic that flares up from her stomach to her throat is pure instinct, a habit she never could quite rid herself of. She stills her hand from running along the cold sheets next to her, cranes her neck up from her pillow, wanting to catch some sense of life. She swivels her head toward the clock on her bedside table, the green light pathetically flashing a clear 6 am. And she  _knows_ he would never just walk out on her, but the voice in the back of her mind is a damn cruel thing.

Throwing her sheets off herself, she slowly pads out from the bedroom, rubbing her hands over her bare arms. She stops midway down the hall, one foot only just lifted from the ground, when she hears soft humming.

She finds him in the middle of the kitchen, swaying the 10 month old in his t-shirt clad arms, eyes trailing his little body up and down as if to memorize every inch of him. She drinks in the scene in front of her and wills her eyes not to well up with tears. (She’s pretty sure she fails.)

She’s quiet when approaching him, only softly speaking when she’s at the entrance of the open kitchen. “Is that a sea shanty you’re singing?”

He looks up, a slight tiredness marring his features that clears up almost instantly when he meets her eyes. He offers her a lopsided smile, the gentle one that uncovers a dimple on his left cheek and makes her stomach flip every single time. And all traces of tiredness leave her body immediately as she takes in his softness, his pure domesticity. “Aye,” his voice is as quiet as hers and it echoes in the early hours of their apartment, “you’re up rather early.”

She hums, both of them moving to stand closer as if due to some magnetic pull. “So are you,” she looks down at Liam in his arms, drifted in heavy sleep. “Are you trying to get some secret quality time in with our son? If he chooses you as his favourite parent, it’ll be due to cheating, you know that right?”

“Well, I am a pirate, love, it would hardly bother me if I was victorious by immoral means.”

She thumbs at Liam’s cheek gently, and the kid is barely a year old but he’s managed to wrap them both around his nimble fingers so quickly. He’s wrapped in a navy blue blanket with little sailboats on them (her father truly enjoys his themed gift giving) to keep out any and all cold, and she swears she loves him more every time she lays her eyes on him. “Don’t listen to daddy,” she all but coos to her son, “he’s the sappiest hero you’ll ever meet.” She looks up to find Killian’s face mere inches from hers, blue eyes filled to the brim with a tender sort of bliss, and damn her if she starts tearing up again.

He gives her a small smile, a muted thing that she recognizes as one of those reserved for her, as he leans in to press his lips to hers. The kiss is soft and simple, just a brush, really, but it still sends a jolt straight down to her toes. And she finds herself running her tongue across her bottom lip when they part, his responding grin serving to be the loudest thing in the room.

She brings her hand to rest flat on his jaw, the other rubbing smoothly across the apple of Liam’s cheek still.

“Don’t worry, lass,” he whispers, bringing his nose to nudge at hers, “I think our boy has taken after me. Nothing will ever be higher than his love for you.”

Her fingers tighten ever so slightly at his jaw, and  _God_ , she’s never been one to believe in miracles, but she’s sure as hell changing her mind about that now.

She moves to kiss him once more, slowly, pouring every ounce of gratitude and hope and love into it that she can muster, being careful not to squeeze Liam between them.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” She sighs into the minimal space between them.

His huff of laughter is almost melodic. “I ask myself the same question every day, love.”

(And she doesn’t even complain when Liam begins crying, filling the corners of the apartment with bellows she assumes only a pirate captain’s son could scrape out from his feeble, little windpipes. She merely takes him into her arms, attempting to rock him to sleep once more as Killian’s hand and brace come around to rest over her stomach, his chin resting on her shoulder, his soft humming in her ear causing her to want to freeze this moment, and keep it tucked safely in her heart forever; like the almost-completed draft of her desired Christmas card.  _Brimming with love_ , she thinks with a grin,  _signed, the Jones family._ )


End file.
